


Colors

by Auggusst



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Depression, LIKE ALL THE TIME, Loneliness, Masturbation, Mention of Death, Other, Sadness, Self Loathing, jesse is just really sad, mention of murder, post overwatch, this is obvs before he meets hanzo, yes i am mchanzo trash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-19
Updated: 2017-02-19
Packaged: 2018-09-25 16:42:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9830132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Auggusst/pseuds/Auggusst
Summary: Jesse jacks off in this(you're welcome) but that's not the main focus. The fact is, Jesse Mccree is a sad, sad man. He's really sad. Someone pls help him this boy shouldnt be so sad





	

**Author's Note:**

> holy shit i actually wrote some OW stuff ayy lmao I RP it but this is the first ive actually written and posted. i love mccree. i LoVE mcree. oh there's probably typos because i'm a horrible proofreader idgaf

Red, orange, yellow. These colors had a constant presence in Jesse's life from a young age. Red, the color of blood- his own, his loved ones, his enemies. Orange, the color of the desert, the dust on his boots or on his clothes. Yellow- the sun at midday. Cyclical. Ever present. A loop of misery and fascination, of excitement and regret.  

It was red now- in more ways than one. The serape was red, simply the fabric it was made with, but there were blotches of darker red now- blood. Not his own. Not only on his serape either. It stained his pants, little flecks on his arms, still wet even. He didn't seem to mind, or particularly notice. With the serape pulled close around his neck and shoulders, and his worn travel bag in his hands, the gunslinger approached the lonely person at the front desk. He was at a motel- didn't know which one. It never really mattered. It was small and run down, with only a few rooms, and miles of desert around. There was little foliage, and the place obviously got little business. The windows were dirty and there was hardly any mundane commotion to be heard. Jesse was glad for it. He swung open the door to the lobby of the motel, and stepped inside. Orange dust left his boots in small clouds as each heel clicked on the already dirty linoleum floor. His shadow, enhanced by the late afternoon sun, ran along the faded yellow walls. There was a pattern on the chipping wallpaper- he wasn't sure what it was. The lobby was empty, as expected. Save for a fraying welcome carpet, an end table with old magazines on it and couch that had to be at least 20 years old, there weren't any items of interest.  

The deep droning of an old airconditioning unit was the only thing audible as Jesse reached the counter, head low, eyes shaded by his hat. The woman at the counter had tanned skin, and hadn't aged well. There were deep ridges of wrinkles on her face and hands. She was thin, too thin, and dark eyes had lost their luminensce. Her graying hair came to her shoulders, but it was not well maintained. There were scars on her arms, some from cuts and others that spoke of a drug habit. Her clothes were wrinkled and well worn. Her expression, above all, stood out to him. She seemed miserable, maybe even more than him. He wondered briefly what she had experienced. It was obviously something big enough to suck the life out of her. She was clearly someone who had given up on happiness years ago, resigned to her fate. There were no signs of resistance anymore. It unsettled Jesse. She flinched as his metallic arm slapped down a good amount of crumpled dollars on the old counter.   

"Need a room." He drawled, not bothering to look up.  

The woman nodded, eyes squinting warily at him. She must have noticed the blood- who wouldn't? The gunslinger didn't particularly look safe either. He was strange, and strange was dangerous. Jesse noticed one hand below the counter, the other reaching slowly forward to collect the money. Of course she had a weapon ready. He wondered briefly how big it was- six shooter or shotgun? He didn't care to find out. He'd had enough for today. What he wanted now was rest. 

"Won't be necessary, ma'am." Mccree added, voice calm but firm, words spoken through tight teeth. He raised his head slightly, holding her gaze.  

She frowned at him, still for a moment, before the eye contact was too much. She dropped her eyes, like a dog submitting to its master, sliding a small key onto the counter noisily with a wrinkled hand.  

"No trouble." She threatened, voice raspy.  

Jesse nodded briefly. "Thank y' kindly." He replied without much gratitude, grabbing the key. Room 13. Of course.  

He turned and left the lobby, moving down the line of rooms until he found his own. Most of the others were empty. Each had a single large window and a plain wooden door that had a number carved into it. There were blinds on the windows, but even through them Jesse could see the neglect in some rooms, or simply the lack of comfort. There were two which were occupied. The gunslinger could tell by the dim light filtering through the blinds. In one, he heard arguing, in another, moans. But mostly, it was silent. His reflection in the windows was dark, a mere black form sweeping past each pane of glass. A ghost. Orange dust in the wind. He almost believed it, save for the jangle of his spurs and the shift of bullets against his belt. The familiar weight of his gun at his side was another reminder that he was in fact there.  

His face was grim as he unlocked the door to his room, allowing a stream of orange light into the area. It was decent enough. Mccree never needed much, never asked for much. There was a queen sized bed in the center against the wall. The left side had a door that obviously led to the bathroom. There was a small tv on the dresser, though he doubted reception was good out here. There was a bedside table with a phone, ashtray, radio and lamp on top and a minifridge in the room as well, and a small table against the wall with a chair. There was a single painting on the wall opposite the bed. It seemed to be an abstract take on the Grand Canyon. It felt silly. He didn't look at it for long. Nothing in the room was particularly nice. The brown wallpaper was fading and there were scratches carved into the furniture. The carpet wasn't the cleanest either, but there was a plastic sheet covering the bed. At least that was clean. Even if it wasn't, he would've accepted it. Jesse wasn't unfamiliar with sleeping on the ground. A bed, even a dirty one, was better than nothing.  

The gunslinger flipped the lightswitch by the door, shutting it behind him. A warm dim light filled the room. His bag was dropped on the floor. He moved to the edge of the bed and sat down. The man sighed, pulling off his hat and placing it in his lap. There was a small fleck of blood on the gold emblem in the center. He lifted his right hand and wiped it off with a gloved finger. Red. Always red. Red, orange and yellow. The only colors he knew. 

Jesse moved from the bed, pulling off his orange-dusted boots and pushing them to the side. His serape came next, gathered in his hand as he moved to the small bathroom. The gunslinger was silent as he filled the basin with warm water, rubbing out the blotches of blood with soap. The light in the bathroom was unpleasant- it almost seemed too bright for the rest of the atmosphere. In the mirror he could he how bad he looked- there was a speck of blood on his cheek. His eyes didn't seem to shine the way they did the last time he had bothered to properly look. It scared him- it reminded him of the old woman at the front desk. Mccree dropped his gaze, returning his attention to his serape. The garment was well worn, with tears here and there. He'd had it for years now. Jesse wondered briefly if there was a laundry room here he could use- it had been almost a week since it had been washed. Almost twice as long since he'd had a bed. He had some spare sets of clothes in his bag, but there was no replacement for his serape. Cleaning it here had to do. 

Content with the cleansing of his serape, he slung it over the sink, and proceeded to undress. The shower worked surprisingly well. At least the plumbing was commendable. The steady rhythm of water beating on the floor of the tub calmed him slightly. Mccree exhaled in relief as warm water rained down on his hair. He was thankful for the complimentary shampoo and soap. Muscle memory took over then, hands massaging his scalp and scrubbing the layers of blood and dirt from his tanned skin. He watched the mixture of red and orange and brown swirl around the drain and disappear.  

He was sore, as always. Jesse wished for something to ease the pain. He had to make do with the sensation of fingers on his scalp, gently tugging at the dark strands. It had always comforted him. It was a full on habit now. Whenever he was feeling especially miserable, or stressed, a hand would reach up and tug his hair. Of what little he remembered of his mother, that was one of the things he remembered best. She had always ran her hands through his hair when he tried to sleep, whispering stories to him. That seemed a lifetime ago. He could hardly remember her face now. The voice that once had been more familiar to him than his own was now nothing more than a faded memory. He wasn't sure if he would even recognize it now. Jesse would be a liar if he said he didn't chase the sense of comfort his mother gave him as a child in another partner. No one ever seemed to mind, though. He was skilled enough to erase any questions from the mind of whoever he was sharing a bed with. He wished for someone now- man, woman, it didn't matter. The brunet was never picky in that situation. Someone to distract him- that's all he ever asked for.  

But Jesse didn't even have that now. He had himself, and the steady patter of water falling on his skin. His hands massaged his shoulders for a few moments, working out the tense knots that had formed there. Jesse rested his head on the wall of the shower, eyes closed. He exhaled softly, hands moving slowly down his chest, past his toned stomach, cupping his length gently. He knew his own body better than anything, except perhaps his gun. The familiar weight of his penis was comforting, the best distraction. A practiced hand gently stroked the length, from base to tip, fingering the thick head occasionally, pulling back foreskin which each stroke. The other hand returned to his chest, and then the back of his neck, tugging softly at the dark hair there. He took his time, no thought to any of it, only relief. Jesse continued, working himself up over the minutes, breath quickening with the rising sensations. Water fell over his shoulders and hair, eyes closed to keep away stray drops. A short groan fell from his lips, gasping as he climbed higher. Speed wasn't necessary. He knew the right spots and motions to bring himself to the edge. He'd done it more times than he could count. By himself, or with a partner. The result was always the same. He thrusted his hips in time with the hand gripped around his cock, lips falling slack as the pleasure grew. He was close. Jesse moaned softly, chasing his release.  

"Ah, ah, ah...!" Closer, closer, the heat coiling in his stomach.  

He imagined there was someone else, someone praising him, coaxing him along. He had always been a performer, even when the only person in the audience was himself. He could hear the words in his head- "Come on baby, that's it, come for me."  

When something was asked of Mccree, he got it done. The hand playing with his hair had moved to the wall of the shower for stability. His legs began to shake, face twisted in pleasure and concentration. His movements became more desperate, shaky breaths pulling at his chest. Jesse could go on forever- the sensations of sexual activity were stimulating in more ways than one for him, but today, he wasn't in the mood for playing the long game. Finally, he was pushed over the edge. There- release. With a final groan, the gunslinger's hips jerked forward into his hand, spilling his load. White painted his fingers and the shower wall before him. His hips jerked slightly as ropes of hot cum left his body, riding out his orgasm. He breathed heavily, satisfied for the moment. Jesse rested against the shower wall, catching his breath. But as usual, his mind found no true relief.  

The world was still red, orange and yellow. 

His body moved on its own- cleaning off and leaving the shower, drying off and changing into a pair of sweatpants. The dim light in the room did him little good for the moment, so he turned it off. Mccree pulled off the protective sheet from the bed, drawing back the thin blankets. From the pouch on his belt, on the top of the pile of clothes he'd left by the bed, he grabbed a cigar and lighter. Jesse settled back, pillows propped behind him. His hair was still damp, and probably soaking the pillow, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He flicked open the lighter and lit his cigar, taking a long drag- another habit of his, one he didn't think he would ever break. Truth be told, he didn't care to. Cigars were simply another small form of comfort in an uncomfortable world. The setting sun peeking between blinds left broken stripes across his exposed chest and the blanket covering his lower body. Shadow was spreading across his room. It was quiet. He exhaled, a cloud of smoke leaving his lips. Jesse watched the sun setting.  

This was how it had been for years. Lonely. Red, orange and yellow. Chasing satisfaction in one place or another, struggling to find a purpose, to let go of the past, to bury his demons. But there was no burying them. No moving on. He created more every day. Jesse Mccree- he had many titles, but the one he would choose for himself was failure. He was no hero, never had been. Not even in Overwatch. He was a killer, nothing more. A corrupted soul, an irredeemable creature. He'd taken his first life at 12. Didn't want to, but didn't have any choice. It wasn't the last time either. Every time he killed, there was someone there to say "you did the right thing," or "it's alright." Someone was always there to ensure him that what he was doing wasn't wrong. But he knew it was. He had always known. The worst part was that sometimes he enjoyed it. He enjoyed the sound of a bullet hitting flesh, the trails of red left on orange dust. He enjoyed being a better killer than everyone else around him. He had always been praised for it. Praised by the older folks in the gang, by the leaders of Overwatch. Jesse had always been a glorified weapon, a weapon, of what most claimed, was justice. But that didn't change what he was- a killer. He tried not to think about his victims too much. But some nights, in the lonely dark, their faces would stare at him, a thirst for revenge in some eyes, pity in others. They judged him endlessly, wordlessly. It was maddening.  

The face that stared at him today was around his age. Dirt-covered, menacing, twisted. It didn't make it any easier to look at. Jesse would have felt the same if the face was young and bright. A life taken is a life taken. Perhaps even that horrible man had a family waiting for him, or people to mourn him. That was something Jesse didn't have. What did he have? His hat, his gun, his serape. His tools of destruction. He'd lost more family over the years than he could count- some good, some bad, and some in between, but family nonetheless. Now, he was alone. A mystery to some, known by most, and feared by many in the west. Jesse felt like the ghost others saw him as. Was he even human? Was any of this living? He sighed, eyes closed and brows furrowed. The brunet considered turning on the radio, but these days everything felt like white noise. It sickened him to say that the only time he felt something was when his gun was aimed at another person. However, it was the truth, and he couldn't escape it. He couldn't even think of a time, really, when he had looked forward to the future. Maybe when he had just joined Overwatch. But even as time passed there, he always got the sense that something was missing, that there was a wall in front of him and behind him. Jesse was stuck, even then. Maybe more so since the fall.  

A hand brushed through his hair, softly tugging at the strands, seeking comfort. What was his purpose? Would he ever find it? Could he ever? Did he deserve a life other than this? A part of him believed he did. Everyone deserved happiness, even if they had done horrible things. There was a piece in Jesse's heart that clung to hope, to the promise of something better. He could change, maybe, or find something new to do. Maybe some nice guy or girl would look past his faults and learn to accept him. Maybe they would even redeem him. It was nice to hope. Hope kept Jesse going. Hope kept him from turning into the woman in the lobby. Surely, if he kept hoping, one day, things would be better? A small part of him seemed to think so. The rest of him chuckled bitterly, and the gunslinger took another drag of his cigar as the sun slowly disappeared below the horizon. There was no more red, or orange or yellow for the moment.  

Mccree was alone, and the world was consumed by black.


End file.
